


nobody else but me

by Catznetsov



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boston Bruins, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Petty Rivalry, Washington Capitals, sexy bullying, thigh-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 13:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/pseuds/Catznetsov
Summary: “Aw,” Brad says, and then, “No, really, you have a very pretty dick. And I’ve seen Patrice’s.”“You don’t need to talk,” Lars says, sounding exasperated, and that’s how Brad gets to people. First he tires them out talking, and then they start to talk back the same way, and before they know it they like him.





	nobody else but me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the sinbin prompt asking for more thigh-fucking in this fandom.
> 
> Brad Marchand and Lars Eller have been trying to out-Mean Girls each other since Lars debuted with Montreal. Since Brad Marchand is…Brad Marchand, whatever you think that means, and Tiger is a beautiful hothead whose Principles are stronger than his punches, this is a mostly harmless and very funny rivalry.
> 
> https://www.nbcsports.com/washington/capitals/rematch-wasnt-lars-eller-not-happy-brad-marchand-ducking-scrap

“Hey, are you even—” Brad says, sticking his head way out over the half boards, “—whoops, hey Nicky, how’s it going, nice night huh, anyway, where’s my….Other Lars, there we are—you even tired, only playing ten minutes?”

“I’m actually on the ice right now,” Eller says. “You know, where we allowed to play. Not from the bench?”

“Good job,” Brad says, keeping one eye on the official currently suing Ovi for custody of the puck. “I’m just saying maybe if somebody gave you a real workout you wouldn’t have energy to be so mad.”

He gets the greenest look he thinks he’s ever seen. Brad’s just considering the restricted Scandinavian gene pool and whether he cares enough about blinking first not to when Eller does, long sweep of white lashes dismissing him. “I’m not mad. You’re just not funny.”

“Sure, kitten,” Brad says, catching his breath as the puck drops. “Whatever you say.”

He makes his excuses to his teammates, after, who didn’t ask him for any. They slink home to sleep off the loss and he drifts down the likeliest hallway where a stranger might choose to linger. It’s not a sure bet, but he turns a couple corners and comes out into a long common corridor and there’s his prize pacing away at the other end. Brad catches up, easy. 

He walks alongside for a minute, lets Eller look over first, flicker of green in the corner of Brad’s eye. “Not tired yet?”

“No way I answer that you’re not gonna make fun of,” Eller says, so he’s not always a hothead. Brad allows himself a peek, but it’s not at his eyes. 

“Aw, you’re getting to know me,” he says, and then Eller must stick a foot out and trips him into the wall. Brad tips over but hooks an ankle between Eller’s to tumble him too, and they end up each with a shoulder to the cinderblock, Eller’s elbow stuck in Brad’s chest and Brad’s arm supporting the deep curve of his back. 

“Fuck you,” Eller says peaceably. 

“Sure,” Brad says. He hadn’t meant to when he started walking, but he does. “I mean I’m not busy, if you’ve got ten minutes.” 

“Oh,” Eller says. “Well. If that’s all you need, won’t bother you.”

He blows his mussed hair out of his eyes, and into Brad’s. “Yeah,” Brad says reflectively, “I’m gonna fuck you. Come on, my car’s down in our parking.” 

Neither of them let go first or let the other cut ahead, so they tumble down to the garage side by side. Brad gets his keys out and manages the door, and for those moments Brad is tucked into Eller where he followed a second too long and stopped too close. He’s the kind of big with a softness to it, and Brad is turning even as he feels the lock click. Eller tugs Brad in and must be managing to open the door behind his back but Brad’s busy investigating the pink promise of his mouth.

Whatever people may think Brad can kiss like a gentleman, and he knows how to make it nice. And it’s in his interests to make nice now, isn’t it, because he bet he can make Eller come in the next ten minutes in the backseat of his car. Brad kisses his closed mouth until Eller bites, and then Brad takes that opportunity to get his tongue in Eller’s mouth, laughing at the disgusted noise as Eller realizes his tactical mistake. He makes to push Brad into the backseat, hot hands on Brad’s hipbones and Brad nearly lets himself land on his ass, but once they’re in it’ll be hard to maneuver and that isn’t how Brad is suddenly seeing this going, at all. 

He braces himself in the doorframe and tries another light kiss, all polite, first square-on and then ducking away to find one corner and then another, the plush curve of his lower lip each time Eller starts to answer, until he sighs hot against Brad’s skin and lets his mouth fall open for Brad to bite and then lick in. Brad shuffles his ass discreetly over towards the doorframe and gets his arms around Eller’s neck easy, the obnoxiously elegant sweep at the nape of it long under his palms. When Lars leans in Brad tugs and flips them, so he lands on Brad’s backseat blinking for half a second before he slides back to make room. Brad can scramble in, on his knees between Eller’s, dragging the door closed behind them.

Inside, the late-night fluorescent light of the parking garage cuts to a twilight. Out on the ice he blends in well enough to trip over him if you weren’t paying attention, but under Brad like this he almost glows. He tips his face up for another kiss and Brad gets fingers on his jaw, a bright outline in the half light, leaning in over him. 

They trade bites for a long time, Brad sinking almost unwillingly in until it starts to be a problem, his open jacket awkward between them and his dick heavy in his jeans. He tries an exploratory grope, hot between Eller’s thighs, and he’s hardly better off. Lars digs claws into the sensitive small of Brad’s back for the rudeness, and Brad can’t be expected to help grinding closer and arching back into that.

There are condoms in the center console. Brad pouts at the distance, Lars bites him, and eventually they negotiate room for Brad to shimmy over and grab one. He tears the packet open, with his hands and not his teeth because he’s not an animal or an idiot, no matter how Lars is looking at him, and then looks down as well as he can at his own pants and realizes he’s out of order.

“Hold this, wouldya,” he says, and places the condom in Lars’ confused but open palm. Undoing his belt buckle and his fly feels like a blessing. 

Lars pouts down at the packet in his hand, then toward Brad, but his glare gets diverted down as Brad liberates his dick from his underwear. Lars parts his lips, then bites the lower. They’re unfairly pink. Brad gives himself a little reassuring squeeze for good behavior and sinks back toward the cradle of his sprawled thighs as Lars lets them fall even farther apart, but then Lars is pulling back, pushing himself up a little in the backseat. 

He flicks his own fly, somehow fits his fingers under the waistband of those painted-on pants and pushes them down. Europeans, Brad thinks giddily. He’s uncut, pink as everywhere else, foreskin starting to slip back as he gets stiff so the peachy plush head peeks out.

“Aw,” Brad says, and then, “No, really, you have a very pretty dick. And I’ve seen Patrice’s.”

“You don’t need to talk,” Lars says, sounding exasperated, and that’s how Brad gets to people. First he tires them out talking, and then they start to talk back the same way, and before they know it they like him. 

“Got a better—“ Brad starts to ask, and Lars tries to headbutt him in the chest. Or, oh, knock him back from how he’s kneeling over Lars to land more or less on his ass in the seat, back against the other door. He doesn’t seem interested in pinning Brad like Brad had him though, staying low. Brad sorts his legs out along the backseat on either side of him as Lars rocks back into him. He’s still got that condom, and he flicks it in Brad’s face for a second before dropping his head and focusing on Brad’s dick. Brad gives himself another quick rub, kneading at the base just above his balls to fluff himself a little harder, but apparently that’s not gonna be a problem. 

Lars rolls the condom down, delicate, just the pad of his thumb and two fingers, circling them around Brad when he’s done. Like this with the parking garage light cutting in over Brad’s shoulder, Brad can appreciate the slick shine on his lower lip, where it’s flushed and must be hot from both of them biting at it. Thank you, lord, Brad thinks, for what Brad is about to receive.

Lars licks at the head of Brad’s dick, finds his slit with the point of his tongue and circles it, heat soaking through the latex. When he’s ready he takes the head between those pink lips, covering Brad with his hand. Brad’s own hand is still caught between them, knuckles brushing under Lars’ chin now as Lars cradles him with his tongue and starts to sink down.

Brad wants to buck into it, but believe it or not he knows how to receive a blowjob like a gentleman. He wants all the heat he can get, to fill that pretty mouth and feel him gasp when Brad pulls back. He doesn’t, just breathes as easy as he can around the fizzy sparks filling up his belly, flaring each time Lars pulls back and licks his way down a little further. That gives him plenty of time to look down, and that’s such a fucking mistake.

Brad didn't plan for the half light. He didn’t know how the angled light would make Lars’ lashes look like they’re fluttering closed, how it would fall across the hollow of his cheeks as he pulls back again to suck at the head of Brad’s dick or how it would catch on the color when Lars grips a hand around Brad’s on his shaft andthen licks back down to meet it. 

Brad wants to see that careful little pink tongue clean up his come, but that’s not happening, because he’s wearing a condom, and oh right, that’s not happening. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, “I think that’s plenty.” Lars lets him go, air abrupt and cold on his dick, so that helps. “Plenty wet to go in you.”

He gets an eye roll, but he doesn’t get a blink. Lars’ lip is pink, between his teeth. It must be sore, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Brad thinks if you’re going to let Brad screw you, you’ve gotta be a little into humiliation, or at least secondhand embarrassment. And that’s fine, whatever does it, because Brad doesn’t mind being on the other side of a little shame but he’s only ever been into the people who look up at him like this, honestly wanting it. He tips Eller back and Lars goes easily, arching against the seat cushion until his hips slide back across the seat cushions to where they should be, heavy thighs falling openaround Brad.

Brad almost lost there. He didn’t but he admitted he could, and that’s worse. But the way it twists his stomach fades like the sharp lights outside their shelter as Brad guides Lars’ jeans farther down and spreads his hands over the swell of bared muscle. One of Lars’ legs is just going to have to go over his shoulder to fit; Brad lifts both of them and squirms in, just in case. 

Lars laughs at him, or shivers, maybe, but it doesn’t matter when Brad is more than strong enough to press up under the weight of all that thigh, easy. He should be, anyway, but one of them must be out of breath now, the sound filling up the quiet car. Brad turns his face into the crook of Lars’ knee, finding a frost of hair that tickles the tip of his nose and thickens to gold up the length of Lars’ thigh as the missing breath catches between them.

When he pushes the thigh he’s cradling higher and guides the other out his fingers can follow that faint gold to where it vanishes, rubbed away right between Lars’ thighs. Brad strokes up until Lars squirms at the cold and lets them hover there, getting warmer. Lars keeps everything trimmed pretty, so when Brad goes for another grope he gets short curls under his fingertips, silky skin, a little gasp. 

Brad’s always liked this part, the way a guy’s balls can fill his palm and how much reaction he can sometimes get just rolling and working with his calluses. He’s almost put out to have to let go when he shifts and strokes up. Lars’ foreskin is most of the way back now as he perks up, and Brad feels a momentary sting to his pride or something like it, that Lars isn’t eagerly hard for him already like Brad’s always liked to imagine. But then he gets the treat of playing with it, sneaking a couple quick rubs with his thumb to roll it over the ridges as he moves his hand until Lars’ breath is hitching again, the head of his dick satisfyingly hot and getting wet against Brad’s palm. Instead of applauding himself, which would be difficult with his other hand still supporting Lars’ hip and probably be self-defeating, Brad gathers a little and slicks his fingertips back down the crease of his thigh to even softer skin. Lars’ calf hooked over his shoulder squeezes encouragingly as Brad circles his hole, and then his heel digs in hard.

“Cold?” Brad checks, and Lars shakes his head. Brad squirms around a bit to see him better. Lars shoots him a look like he’s considering kicking him again, but then he lets his head fall back against the car door. Brad’s happy to kill a minute eyeing up the exposed length of his throat, until the silence seems to get to Lars and he peeks back down at Brad, more put-out than anything. Brad holds up his hands, as well as he can, and wiggles them to show his rapt attention.

Lars snorts, but attractively. “You don’t keep lube there too?” he says, indicating the console with his chin in a way that starts judgmental but winds up confused.

“Actually, I don’t,” Brad admits. “Seems sleazy. Wait, is it sleazier if I do or if I don’t? Cause if I did you’re like implying that that implies I fuck in my car too much, but if not, I’m pretty inconsiderate to who I’m fucking in my car, huh?”

“I wasn’t—whatever,” Lars says. “You can do what you want in your car. I just don’t want to do, you know, anything without it.”

“Cool,” Brad says. From this angle that’s disappointing, but it also sounded like if they did have it Lars would really want it, and that’s not getting less hot. “What?”

“I—whatever,” Lars says again, and clips it off. “You can, um,” and he looks down at his own golden thighs at a loss. Brad looks too, happily.

“Oh hey,” he says after a second. “Hey, flip over. Without kneeing my face in, yeah. Like this, here,” and they work around until Lars is on his belly instead, braced on his forearms. His ribs fill Brad’s hands as he breathes deliberately deep and slow, and Brad strokes down the heavy muscle of his sides, maybe to settle him or just because Brad wants to. The hard sweep of his hipbones fits into Brad’s palms, and Brad considers the picture for a minute before he plants a hand between Lars’ shoulder blades instead, pressing him down into the leather seat. Lars’ whole back twitches, like if he could he’d be a cat switching its tail, but he goes. Brad lowers himself to his own elbows over him, the curve of Lars’ spine fitting just as sweetly against his chest, his plush ass against Brad’s hips. 

Lars tries to spread his legs in the little space they have, but he’s got a lot of leg, and Brad wants to feel all of it against him. He shakes his head so Lars can feel the motion at the nape of his neck, clucks his tongue by Lars’ cheek, and Lars sighs into the leather but presses his thighs back together exactly how Brad had hoped. When Brad pushes, his dick fits between them, warm and still just slick enough.

Lars gasps at the touch and Brad wants to, but instead he works his hips back and then fucks in again, the head of his dick stroking over the vulnerable skin behind Lars’ balls. Lars gasps again when Brad pulls back, buries his face in his arms when Brad works over them again. He might be biting his own wrist, or the leather. Brad hopes so, hopes he’s that eager for anything to fill his mouth to make up for the loss of Brad’s dick, even as Brad drives between his thighs again. This time he rolls his hips at the end, pinning Lars’ down against the leather for a moment longer, Lars’ dick trapped against his belly. Lars doesn’t let out a sound, but Brad can feel it rumbling through his back to Brad’s chest, as Lars tries to work his hips even further down, and then back up against Brad’s for more. 

Right now, like this, Brad knows he’s got something no one else’s got. Maybe nobody else’s gotten to feel this. Maybe there’s a different guy in every city they play who has, but Brad’s still the one getting it now, and he takes it, nosing into the curls at Lars’ nape and fucking into the velvety heat of his thighs. Lars tries rocking up to meet each stroke the way he would if Brad were fucking his ass, then grumbles and figures out how to clench his thighs so the swell of muscle around Brad’s dick feels like it’s squeezing anything else Brad’s ever thought about out of his brain. 

Brad’s hips hitch, grinding helplessly against Lars’ ass and the head of his dick against Lars’ balls, now getting slick from one or the other of them, except Brad has a condom on, so that has to be Lars leaking like that. Brad only gets a moment to think about that before he can feel Lars shaking under him. Brad wraps his arms as well as he can around him, pinning Lars’ long arms where they’re thrown up to pillow his head, gripping tight and burying his face in the hot halo of Lars’ hair as Lars arches into him. His thighs quake and then fall soft under Brad, and even without the pressure Brad doesn’t have trouble coming not long after that. 

He has a hard time wanting to move after that, the weight of the game and his own bad ideas hitting all at once and warm from Lars spread out under him. But Lars starts to squirm, and the threat to Brad’s over-sensitive dick which Lars no longer has any reason to be friendly to makes him push himself up. The electric light of the garage, which Brad’s starting to think might not be on his side either, catches in the fall of Lars’ hair, down the wrinkled wreck of his dress shirt to the gold curve of his ass and traces of the mess they just made there.

Lars lifts his head just enough to glare at him.

“Hey,” Brad says, and flops his arm around until he finds the console. “Oh hey, I have—napkins?”

“That would be nice,” Lars deigns. Brad is too busy staring to notice what he hands over, but he’ll lie and say everything was leading up to this if that means he can claim the way Lars’ nose crinkles up in scorn and then in hitching laughter as he flicks the hot pink and orange Dunkin napkin in Brad’s face.

“So I got hungry,” Brad admits. 

“I’m hungry now,” Lars says. “What time is it?”

Brad fishes for his phone, and then they both stop. Lars meets his look with wide green horror. Neither of them, apparently, had checked the time when they got to the garage, ten minutes or hours ago for all Brad knows. Brad might have won or lost something, but if the clock wasn’t running, Brad didn’t fuck him for a bet, he just fucked him. 


End file.
